


The Road to Hell

by Adrenalized



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Post-Betrayal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalized/pseuds/Adrenalized
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hawke gives Fenris back to his former master, with every intent to beat Danarius at his own game, everything goes horribly wrong. In the aftermath, Hawke reminisces of lost love while knowing that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work of fiction posted online, for all to see, in a very long time. It's not even an actual story, to be brutally honest. It's a sort of built-upon ficlet of my latest post during a tumblr RolePlay I have with a good friend who plays Fenris so well.
> 
> That being said, be gentle. @_@

The Road to Hell  


Hawke watched Fenris from her tent. The elf was lost, she could tell. Her betrayal.. Maker, what she'd done to him would never be undone. And if it was, it wouldn't be soon. She wanted to hold him, touch him, tell him she was sorry and prove to him she meant it. But how could you apologize to someone who had accepted your apology already, but had not forgiven you? What right did she have to think she was special, and that a slight against him could be forgiven just because she was Hawke? Her heart ached. It ached like it had been bludgeoned, and maybe it had. Hawke hadn't slept much since she'd handed him back to Danarius. She'd done so on the intention of beating the magister at his own game, on his own ground. Using his laws against him, she'd wanted him to see that Fenris was hers, by his own words, and to watch her free him under Tevinter law. Hawke had never planned for it to go so wrong. When she'd come to the Magister's home, seen Fenris tied to the table with bottles of lyrium all around him, knives at the ready.. oh Maker she'd knew it was her fault.

She wanted to cry.

He'd told her no more tears, in such a voice as to make her weep even more. Maker but she wanted to hold him, to let him know she could still be trusted, that she wasn't like the others. Oh Maker preserve her, she thought to herself as she rolled to the side, subconsciously expecting the very object of her thoughts to be there.

He wasn't.

Hawke lost herself in the memory of green eyes, a shock of white hair, and the rough touch of the only man she ever loved who would never love her again. She remembered him vividly. The rasp of his voice against her ear as he kissed her throat, her neck, her shoulder. He left bite marks along her body, growling possessively if she tried to squirm away, knowing he would chase her and claim her as he always did. Calloused fingers against pale skin, flushed with desire brought on by heated glances and hidden touches throughout the day. They always sat close to each other at gatherings at the Hanged Man or the Amell Estate's kitchen. Hawke either leaning against Isabela, the pirate copping a feel occasionally (much to Fenris' dismay, growling in her direction), or sitting upright by herself on a rare time she wasn't feeling lazy.

Hawke remembered how he felt against her at night, after their lovemaking ceased. His arm tight around her middle, pulling her into him and burying his face in her red hair. They'd talk, long into the night, warmed by the fire and the thick cotton blankets that had somehow managed to come unruffled. She would turn over the next morning, look at him, and he would grumble about movement and how it was not a thing this early in the morning, Hawke.

Memories unbidden flooded back to her, and she fought back the tears, to keep the promise to him that she'd made to him. A promise made on the supposed knowledge that she was strong, that she could win against anything. She pressed her palms to her eyes, demanding her body not to betray her to the agony of his touch. Or the lack thereof.

The tears came, against all her intents, and they would not stop. Her face buried itself into her travel pillow, the gut wrenching sobs thankfully muffled by the thick fabric. Eventually Hawke cried herself to sleep, unwilling to force down the memory of a calloused thumb pad brushing them away after the loss of her mother. Anything was better than the raw loneliness, the ache of knowing he wouldn't grace her presence, her bed, ever again.

Oh what had she done.


End file.
